This is all perfectly clear and understandable to the author. Yet he isn’t the least bit surprised that Nina Osipovna couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The author doesn’t hold ballet dancers in particularly high esteem.
7
Ivan Ivanovich Belokopytov enrolled in “The Public Good” cooperative.
He would now get up at the crack of dawn, put on his suit—which was by then quite shabby—and, trying not to wake his wife, tiptoe out of the house and hurry to work. He was almost always the first at the door, and would often have to stand there for an hour or more, waiting for the manager to arrive and open the shop. He was also last to leave the shop, along with the manager. He would hurry home, jumping over ditches, carrying whatever eatables he had been issued under his arm.
Back home, babbling breathlessly and interrupting himself, he would tell his wife that the new job was very much to his liking, that he wanted nothing else from life, that being a shop clerk wasn’t so very shameful and humiliating, and that, in the grand scheme of things, the job was quite pleasant and not too difficult.
Nina Osipovna reacted to this change in Ivan Ivanovich’s life rather sympathetically, saying that if this arrangement were merely temporary then it wasn’t as bad as it might seem at first glance, and that in the future they might even be able to open a humble little cooperative of their own. Developing on this notion, Nina Osipovna would go into utter rapture, conjuring a picture of them doing trade: him behind the counter, strong, with his sleeves rolled up and a cleaver in his hand, and herself—graceful, lightly powdered—at the cash register. Yes, she would stand at the register, smile cheerfully at the customers, and count the money, binding the bills into neat little packets. She loved to count money. Even the dirtiest of bills was cleaner than any apron and stack of dishes.
With these thoughts in her head, Nina Osipovna would clap her hands, slip on her pink tights and gauze, and commence her idiotic jumping and curtseying. Meanwhile, Ivan Ivanovich, exhausted by a long day’s work, would tumble into bed and drift off, eagerly looking forward to the morning.
The following day, returning from work, Ivan Ivanovich would share his new experiences with his wife. He would laugh as he told her of how, say, he had weighed some butter—and of how a barely noticeable application of one finger to the scale radically changes an object’s weight, to the considerable advantage of the clerk.
Nina Osipovna would perk up at those moments. She would wonder why Ivan Ivanovich had only applied one finger to the scale, rather than two, saying that two would have reduced the butter’s weight still further. She also deeply regretted that he hadn’t swapped the butter for some worthless yellowish muck, maybe clay.
Ivan Ivanovich would laugh off his wife’s suggestions and beg her not to interfere in his affairs, so as not to go too far over the edge and thus cause him to lose the job. But Nina Osipovna would angrily advise him not to be excessively tenderhearted and dewy-eyed in his practices.
Ivan Ivanovich agreed. He would declare—getting a bit worked up—that cynicism was an absolutely necessary and normal quality, that no beast could get along without cynicism and cruelty, and that, in fact, cynicism and cruelty may be the most proper qualities of all, since they secure the right to live. Ivan Ivanovich would also proclaim that he had once been a foolish, sentimental puppy, but that he had now grown up and understood what it cost to live. He had even realized that his former ideals—compassion, generosity, morality—weren’t worth a rusty kopeck and a rotten egg. They were all pathetic trifles belonging to a false, sentimental era.
Nina Osipovna had no patience for such abstract philosophical ideas. She would peevishly wave her hand, saying that she entirely preferred concrete, visible facts and money to all his words.
And so the days passed.
Ivan Ivanovich Belokopytov managed to make several purchases and acquisitions. For instance, he bought a few soup plates with blue rims, two or three pots, and, finally, a kerosene stove.
The purchase of the kerosene stove was cause for celebration—a real moment of triumph. Ivan Ivanovich unpacked it with his own hands and showed Nina Osipovna how to operate it, how to cook lunch and warm up meat.
Ivan Ivanovich became the master of his home and a prudent man. He now deeply regretted having let his neighbor have all his foreign suits for a song. But he would console himself right away, saying that it was only a matter of time—and not much time—before he could buy a good, plain suit, of a color that wouldn’t show dirt.
Alas, Ivan Ivanovich never did get to buy that suit.
One day Ivan Ivanovich left the shop before closing time and, having shoved two pounds of stearin candles and a piece of soap into his briefcase, walked through the courtyard toward the street.
He was stopped at the gate by a guard, who demanded to examine the contents of his briefcase.
Ivan Ivanovich, who suddenly looked rather haggard, stood perfectly still, staring silently at the guard. The guard said he had received strict orders not to let anyone out of the yard without a search, and repeated his demand.
Ivan Ivanovich was completely stunned, and found it hard to understand what was happening. He allowed the guard to open the briefcase. To the joyful shouts of the crowd, the guard extracted the ill-begotten candles and soap.
Belokopytov was invited to the station. The candles were confiscated and he was interrogated. After drawing up a damning report, the guards released him, poking fun at his comic appearance—mocking this figure with the empty, unbuttoned briefcase pressed to its chest.
It all happened so quickly and unexpectedly that Ivan Ivanovich staggered out into the street without a clear sense of his position. At first he set off for home, but then turned left before reaching Saint-Just Street and walked on in a rather odd manner, without moving his hands or head.
He kept going for a few blocks, sat on some little bench for a while, then returned home late at night.
Entering the house, he groped his way through the dark like a blind man, made his way to his room, and lay down on the bed. Turning to the wall, he began to trace the pattern on the wallpaper with his fingers.
He didn’t breathe a word to his wife. Nor did she ask any questions, having already learned of the day’s events. Yegor Konstantinovich had brought her the news after returning from work.
And now, despite Belokopytov’s presence, Yegor Konstantinovich rapped lightly on the wall and asked Nina Osipovna whether she needed anything, whether she’d fancy a glass of tea and a sandwich.
Without so much as glancing at her husband, Nina Osipovna replied in a chesty, melodious voice that she was stuffed to the gills and was going to bed. Yegor Konstantinovich asked something else, courteously and politely, but she responded, undressing and yawning, that she was asleep.
And she did indeed lie down on the couch. Covering her face with her hands, she lay there strangely, without moving a muscle. Ivan Ivanovich got up to put out the light, but, after looking at the sofa, sat down and stared at his wife for a long time. It seemed to him that she was in a desperate state, close to death. And he wanted to go over to her, kneel down, and say something in a calm, cheerful tone. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
8
He stretched out in bed, trying not to move or think. But he couldn’t help thinking—not about what had happened earlier in the day, but about his wife, about her unhappy life, and about the fact that not everyone had the right to exist.
Thinking these thoughts, he began to drift off. Some sort of terrible fatigue fettered his legs, and some sort of weight pressed down on his whole body.
He closed his eyes and lay perfectly still. His breathing grew steady and calm.
But then a cautious shuffling of feet and the creak of the door startled him awake.
He opened his eyes with a shudder, sat up in bed, and gazed around the room nervously. The small kerosene stove was barely burning, casting a few meager long shadows. Ivan Ivanovich looked at the couch—his wife was gone.
Worried and anxious, he jumped to his feet and carefully walked across the room on tiptoes.
Then he ran to the door, opened it, and—frightened, shivering, his teeth chattering in the predawn hours—rushed into the corridor. He dashed into the kitchen and took a quick look in the mudroom. All was quiet and calm—except for the chicken in the mudroom, who was spooked by Ivan Ivanovich and jumped away with a terrible cry.
Belokopytov returned to the kitchen. Katerina Vasilyevna was now sitting up in her bed, yawning and making little signs of the cross over her mouth. She was listening close to the unusual noise. Catching sight of Ivan Ivanovich, she lay down again, assuming that he had gotten up to answer nature’s call.
But Ivan Ivanovich came up to her and began to tug at her hand, begging her to tell him whether his wife had passed through the kitchen.
Making signs of the cross and shrugging her shoulders, Katerina Vasilyevna pled ignorance. Then she began putting on her skirt, saying that if Nina Osipovna had stepped out, well, she’d likely be back.
Once Katerina Vasilyevna was dressed, she walked up to tenant Yarkin’s locked door and told Ivan Ivanovich that his wife hadn’t left the house. If she wasn’t in the Belokopytovs’ room—well, he might want to try the neighbor’s.
Beckoning Belokopytov with her finger, she led him into the corridor and up to Yarkin’s door, where she put her eye to the keyhole.
Ivan Ivanovich also wanted to approach the door, but at that moment the floor beneath him creaked, and he heard a bustle in the neighbor’s room. Yegor Konstantinovich himself came up to the door, his bare feet slapping across the floorboards, and asked hoarsely: “Who’s there? Whaddaya want?”
Ivan Ivanovich wanted to remain silent, but instead he said: “It’s me…Is Nina Osipovna Arbuzova…with you, by any chance?”
“That’s right,” Yarkin answered rudely. “Whaddaya want?”
Receiving no reply, he grabbed the door handle.
A broken whisper sounded in the room. Nina Osipovna was pleading with Yarkin, begging him to hand over some revolver, saying that everything would be fine, just fine. Then she herself approached the door and took hold of the handle, asking softly: “Vanya…Is that you?”
Ivan Ivanovich winced, muttered something vague, then slunk away to his room. There, he sat down on the bed.
The author speculates that Ivan Ivanovich felt no particular despair. Sure, he might have sat down on the bed with evident despair, but that despair only lasted a moment. Once he had the chance to turn it over in his mind, he was probably even delighted.
Indeed, the author can’t imagine why Ivan Ivanovich wouldn’t be delighted. A terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. After all, Nina Osipovna’s life had been his constant concern; he had had to provide her with all sorts of entertainment, theater, the best piece of bread. Now that Ivan Ivanovich’s life had deteriorated so dramatically, feeding a little lady of this sort would be all the more difficult. After jumping all day in front of the mirror, the woman ate enough for two.
And so, after sitting on the bed a little while longer and reaching the conclusion that he had nothing to worry about, Ivan Ivanovich stretched out again. He lay there until morning, without closing his eyes. He wasn’t thinking of anything, but his head buzzed and felt as if it were full of lead.
When Ivan Ivanovich got up the next morning, he was a rather different Ivan Ivanovich. The sunken eyes, the sallow, wrinkled skin, the tousled hair—it was an extraordinary change. And even after he had washed up with cold water, the change refused to disappear.
Ivan Ivanovich dressed, combed his hair out of habit, and left the house. He slowly made his way to the cooperative, but suddenly turned aside sharply, winced, and walked away.
On he plodded, step after step—dully, mechanically. Reaching the edge of town, he set off for his favorite spot in the woods, past the “Dog’s Grove.”
He crossed the grove, treading on yellow autumn leaves, and walked out into the clearing.
The whole clearing was pitted with old wartime trenches, dugouts, and bunkers. Scraps of rusty barbed wire hung from small stakes in the ground.
Ivan Ivanovich loved this place. He had often wandered through the trenches, lain at the edge of the woods, and smiled slyly to himself as he gazed at all these military ventures. But now he crossed the clearing somewhat indifferently, as if he noticed nothing. When he reached the woods, he sat down on a half-collapsed dugout, which had been built maybe seven years earlier.
He sat there for a long while, thinking of nothing, then walked farther, and then came back again and lay down on the grass. He lay with his face down for a long time, pulling at the grass with his hands. Then he got up and went back to town.
It was early autumn. Yellow leaves littered the ground. And the earth was warm and dry.
9
Ivan Ivanovich was now living alone.
Returning home after his wanderings and glumly surveying his barren lodgings, Ivan Ivanovich would sit on his bed, tallying the objects that had vanished along with Nina Osipovna. The number of such objects was, it turned out, nothing to sneeze at: gone were the kerosene stove bought in happier days, the tablecloth, and even the mirror and the small bedside rug.
Ivan Ivanovich wasn’t so very troubled by these losses. “To hell with them!” kind Ivan Ivanovich thought, listening to the chatter on the other side of the wall.
The chatter was all whispers; it was impossible to make out any words. From time to time, he would hear the bass notes of Yegor Konstantinovich. In all likelihood, Yegor Konstantinovich was consoling Nina Osipovna, who was anxious to maintain her new well-being and retain the objects she had taken without her husband’s permission.
But Ivan Ivanovich couldn’t care less about objects. Every morning he would walk to the edge of town, go past the grove and the clearing, and approach the woods.
There he would sit on his dugout or roam the woods, tripping over tree roots, thinking about, or rather, contemplating his new position. He tried to capture what had befallen him—what had happened, why it had happened—in some single thought.
His wife had left him. She had no choice but to leave. He was a man of the old world, unfit for the struggle. Women follow the victor. Well, there it was—clear as day. And now nothing would save him from certain death.
Death was certain. He knew that, but by force of some sort of will he still tried to find a way out—to come up, at least theoretically, with some possible way out, some possible means of prolonging his existence. He didn’t want to die. On the contrary, whenever the idea occurred to him, he would drive it from his mind, dismissing it as absurd and useless. At such moments, he would try to think of something else.
Roaming the woods, Ivan Ivanovich would ask himself why he shouldn’t just make his home right there. He pictured himself living in the half-collapsed dugout, surrounded by mud and dirt, and crawling out on all fours, like an animal, in search of food.
He would laugh it off, of course.
But now he no longer returned home every evening. Sometimes he would stay in the woods. Half-starved, greedily chewing on raw mushrooms, roots, and berries, he would fall asleep under some tree, his hands folded under his head.
If it rained, he would crawl into the dugout. Crouching and hugging his skinny legs, he would listen to the raindrops beating against the trees.
10
It was autumn. The rains never ceased. Once again, it was impossible to go out without galoshes. Once again, the mud came up to one’s knees.
Nina Osipovna’s life with Yegor Konstantinovich Yarkin was quiet and carefree. Her exercises in dance had to be laid aside. She was pregnant, and Yegor Konstantinovich, fearing for his posterity, strictly forbade her from dressing up in all that frilly pink rubbish, threatening to burn the rags in the stove if she resisted. After a bit of capriciousness and a few tears, she resigned herself. Now she just sat beside the window, staring blankly at the muddy street. From time to time she would ask
Yarkin whether he’d heard anything about her husband. Yegor Konstantinovich would just smile and wave his hand, telling her to avoid thinking about her husband for the sake of their child.
And Nina Osipovna would fall silent, but would still wonder why she heard fewer and fewer footsteps in the next room.
Indeed, Ivan Ivanovich came home less and less, and when he did return to town, he avoided meeting people. Whenever he encountered anyone, he would run across the street, looking terribly embarrassed and trying to hide his soggy, browned suit.
Ivan Ivanovich no longer even set foot in his room. Coming home, he would stop in the mudroom and silently greet Katerina Vasilyevna, always afraid that she might holler, stamp her feet, and chase him away. But Katerina Vasilyevna—never hiding her surprise and pity, and, for some reason, never even inviting him into the kitchen—would bring out a piece of bread, some soup, or whatever was left after dinner. Without so much as trying to hold back her tears, she would cry as she watched Ivan Ivanovich tear at the food with his thin, gray fingers and swallow it, smacking his lips and gnashing his teeth.
After eating everything that had been brought to him and grabbing another piece of bread, Ivan Ivanovich would touch Katerina Vasilyevna’s sleeve and run off again.
He would return to his dugout. There he would sit in his customary position, coughing and spitting on his suit.
But he hadn’t lost his mind, this Ivan Ivanovich Belokopytov. The author has reliable information on his meeting with one of his old friends. At this meeting, Ivan Ivanovich spoke about his life in a perfectly rational and even somewhat ironic manner. Shaking the rags of his foreign suit, he laughed loudly, saying that it was all nonsense, that a person shed his possessions—shed everything—as an animal sheds its skin in the fall.
Bidding his friend farewell with a firm handshake, he retreated into his dugout.
Ivan Ivanovich’s new life was strange and hard to understand. He tried to think of nothing and to live just for the sake of living, with no special purpose, but it appears he couldn’t help but think, turning his various plans over in his mind. Each time he came to the conclusion that life in the dugout wasn’t so terribly bad, but that, of all the animals, he was the very worst, with his chronic bronchitis and runny nose. Coming to this conclusion, Ivan Ivanovich would nod sadly.
Sentimental Tales Page 7
